


Spawning Season

by jediseagull



Category: due South
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3637497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jediseagull/pseuds/jediseagull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benton Fraser loses a sock and gains a half-wolf. </p><p>Together, they fight crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spawning Season

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3143036) by [peevee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee). 



> Based off of a throwaway line in peevee's fic "The Thing", done entirely without their knowledge or permission but with all credit to them for the frankly brilliant idea of Fraser paddling down the Yukon River dressed in the skin of a bear and his left sock. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, because I wrote this in one go between the hours of 12 and 5 AM.
> 
> I also have a [Tumblr](http://jedi-seagull.tumblr.com/)! Come say hi :D

_Mid-May. 212 miles north-west of White Horse in the Yukon Territories. You'd been dispatched to track down big game poachers that were coming across the border from Alaska. Despite your training, you could not have foreseen that the poachers would convert a mine shaft into a bear trap._

-Francis Bolt, "Red, White, or Blue"

He’d set out from Mayo a week ago, following the river west. Spawning season was early this year, and already Chinook salmon were fighting their way inland from the ocean, frothing the water as they were driven onwards by the innate sense calling them _home_. He’d always liked the symbolism - even as they died, gasping and exhausted on the rocky banks, they laid the foundation for new life, eggs in the silty riverbeds and flesh in the teeth and claws of those who depended on the salmon to feed their own offspring.

It bothered him that the poachers he was tracking were taking advantage of that gift. They’d been following the salmon east, and it was almost too easy - set up by the river, shoot the adult grizzlies, sell the pelts, and move on before anyone thought to ask questions. Seven thousand US dollars per pelt, and damn the orphaned cubs left behind. American park rangers had found several litters starved to death before they’d realized what was going on. Too little, too late.

So when the reports had come that they’d crossed the border, Benton had been the first one to volunteer. And he was closing in...As evidenced by the fact that he’d quite literally fallen into their trap.

The half-grown wolf’s attempts to help had been a surprise, albeit a welcome one, but if he hadn’t had a concussion after his fall, he definitely had one now. Possibly several. He’d gotten out eventually, but he felt a lingering disorientation even now. Perhaps that was why he had the distinct impression that the wolf was trying to _talk to him_.

Which was clearly ridiculous, because wolves - even very clever ones - simply did not talk.

But it was hard to ignore those pitiful amber eyes, staring holes in him from across his meager camp.

 _Feed me_ , they seemed to say. _I’m just a baby, and I’m so hungry_.

Benton sighed. Wherever its pack was, it must have been long gone, because the pup had followed him faithfully for the last two hours, even waiting with lolling tongue for him to make camp. Or perhaps it had never had one to begin with - there was something a little Husky-ish in the jaunty curl of its tail, and cross-breeding, though unusual, was not unheard of. It did seem a little silly to rescue the thing only to let it starve without any older animals to take care of it, but it wasn’t like he could take a wolf pup - even one who was only half-wolf - back to the RCMP outpost.

 _So, so hungry_ , the pup whined, and he caved.

“Come on, then,” he said, and waved a strip of pemmican. In a bound, the animal was at his side, snatching and swallowing the dried meat before looking at him expectantly for more.

Oh dear.

It took the rest of the pemmican and a thorough inspection of Benton’s pack and person before the half-wolf was satisfied. He’d have to hope that his hand-eye coordination had recovered enough by the next morning to allow him to hunt small game, or they’d both starve, and wouldn’t _that_ be embarrassing. He shuddered to think of what his father would say when he found out. Benton Fraser, dead at 30 because he ignored the cardinal rule and fed the wildlife. Robert Fraser would never live it down.

The insistent nudging of a wet nose brought him back to himself. _Sleep_ , the wolf insisted, dogging his heels back to his bedroll. _Sleep now_. And it eyed him expectantly until he crawled into his bedroll. He felt it settle down against his hip with a quiet huff, but by then his eyes were closed, and he was asleep before it could wish him goodnight.

* * *

He woke at dawn to a faceful of white fur. The wolf pup had migrated from his side to his chest overnight, and when he shoved at the creature it yawned fishy breath into his face before uncurling and sauntering off into the bushes to relieve itself.

“No manners whatsoever,” he muttered, and went off in the opposite direction to deal with his own morning hygiene. He felt sufficiently recovered from the events of the day before, and soon had a brace of rabbits skinned, gutted, and roasting over a small fire.

He’d given the offal to the wolf, but if the pathetic whimpering noises were any indication, it was still hungry. He resolved to ignore it. It was a wild thing, and it would have to learn to be self-sufficient.

The whimpering got louder, and, somehow, even more pathetic. _I’m starving over here!_

Finally, he couldn’t take it any more. “I know you may not think so, but you are perfectly capable of feeding yourself,” he told the wolf firmly. “I appreciate your assistance yesterday, but I think I have more than repaid the favor. Now would you please _cease that noise_.”

Miraculously, it did. Standing abruptly, it loped off with puppyish awkwardness into the trees.

“Thank you kindly,” he called after it, and that, he thought, was that.

Distracted by the racket of his impromptu companion, he hadn’t heard the quiet tramp of boots until it was too late. A rifle clicked, and he spun in time to see the man at the other end of the barrel grin coldly.

“Hello, Mountie.”

Oh _dear_.

There were three of them, and they tied his hands and made him lie face-down before they pawed through his supplies.

“Gentlemen, surely you know that it is illegal to hunt _ursus arctos horribilis_ \- otherwise known as the grizzly bear - beyond a single kill per three year period without special dispensation.”

“Oh, we surely do,” one of them jeered.

“Then unless you can provide such documentation, I must ask you to cease at once, and turn yourself in. Over-hunting is the biggest threat to apex predator populations in this area, and it damages the entire ecosystem. ”

More laughter. Well, they were American. He hadn’t really expected it to work, but these men were arrogant. They thought they could take, and take, and nobody would stop them.

But if he could just reach the knife in his boot…

He froze as one of the men approached him.

“You’re so worried for the fucking bears,” the man growled. “Maybe you should be worried about them instead.” And he dumped a bottleful of sweet, musky liquid over Benton’s back. It splashed across his coat and trousers, and as the scent hit his nose he had to suppress a flinch.

Bear bait. They’d doused him in bear bait.   
  
“Maybe we’d have stuck around and picked ‘em off, but hey, you were the one who said we gotta stop. Besides,” he added with a chuckle, “We’ve already got all the pelts we can carry. But just in case you try and come after us...” The man yanked off his boots, and sauntered off with infuriating casualness. And they left, taking with them any chance of his quick escape.

At least now he could bring them up on charges of poaching and attempted murder, he thought ruefully. He rolled onto his side, and began the uncomfortable process of wriggling his bound hands under his legs to bring them in front of himself.

He was painfully aware of the odor emanating from his clothing. He needed to strip immediately, but his thick coat limited his flexibility, and his struggling was having very little success.

He had just about resigned himself to dislocating his own shoulder when he heard a quiet whine.

There, peering out at him from the trees, was the half-wolf. It was looking at him quizzically, _what are you doing flopping about in the mud_ clear as day on its face.

“It’s a long story,” Benton huffed. “Would you mind terribly if…” But the wolf was already trotting over, and with some judicious application of teeth, his wrists were freed. “Thank you kindly,” he said again, and the pup wrinkled its nose and sneezed at him. “Yes, you’re quite right.” He peeled out of his overcoat and trousers, sniffed his shirt and tried not to sigh when he realized that the scent had soaked straight through. With nursing mothers around, it wasn’t worth the risk. His long johns and henley had to go as well.

Which left him with precisely this: the tarp he used to shelter his bedroll, his socks, and one half-grown half-wolf. Who was most certainly laughing at him.

“It’s not my fault humans aren’t built for the cold,” he told it crossly. “As we evolved in much warmer climates than you did, fur-like body hair increased our risk of overheating, and it was lost to natural selection. By the time we migrated to colder regions, we were capable of developing clothing to protect against the weather.”

_Your stinky not-fur?_

“Yes, my - you know, I really don’t think this is the time.”

Being mostly-naked and in stockinged feet thankfully had no effect on his ability to follow a trail. And the arrogance he’d been relying on was finally serving him well, the poachers incautious with their volume and their tracks because they believed he was as good as dead.

He tracked them to the river, where he found the scuff marks that indicated a small boat - a canoe of some kind, probably plastic laminate judging by the weight and the indentations it left in the dirt. And this section of the Yukon, he knew, didn’t branch off for several kilometers. That was a mistake, and one they would pay for dearly. He picked up the pace, jogging easily along the familiar winding trail of the river.

But he needed to find them soon. Though the sun wouldn’t set for several hours still, he was woefully underprepared for any sort of drop in temperature, and while exertion might keep him warm temporarily, he couldn’t forage enough food to burn calories at this rate for more than a day.

Three men. At night, with the element of surprise, he might be able to take down two before the third could reach his weapon, assuming they were all clustered near each other. Assuming they didn’t set a watch. Assuming they didn’t sleep armed.

His father would be able to do it. Then again, his father wouldn’t have allowed himself to be caught in the first place.

 _Use the resources available, Benton_. It was one of Robert Fraser’s favorite sayings. He’d said it before leaving his son with flint and granite, and it had served him well enough then. So. What were his resources?

He had his socks, the tarp, and the wolf - as much as anyone could have a wolf, anyways. It was still pacing him, tongue flopping from between its jaws as it panted, and it had come back for him twice now.

Also to his advantage were his good night vision and his sharp sense of hearing. The rope they’d used on his hands was more or less useless, gnawed into small pieces by sharp canine teeth. But perhaps….he had an idea.

* * *

Despite being well into the evening, the summer sun still glinted in the sky when he came across the poachers’ trail once more. They had made no effort to hide their canoe. Sleekly artificial, it stood out from the jagged, imperfect shapes of the rocks and bushes.

From the canoe, their camp was easy enough to find. He crept closer, crouching in a knot of bushes, and settled in for a long wait. However brief the night was at this time of year, it was still probably his best bet for catching them off-guard. The half-wolf, who had been panting steadily, flopped onto his feet with a massive sigh and rolled one yellow eye in his direction.

“I’m sure they have food stores. We can eat once we’ve secured them,” he whispered to it, and was rewarded with a pleased looking blink.

* * *

In a small mercy, they had not posted watch. But the snoring coming from the bedrolls indicated that they were at some distance from each other, which meant that he could not afford any mistakes.

“Wait here,” he told the wolf pup, who licked his face once in cheerful acknowledgement. He moved toward the camp, and though he could hardly feel his toes anymore he was grateful for the total silence afforded by his lack of shoes.

He was on the first man before any of them woke, two solid jabs to the face to stun him, one more to knock him unconscious.

“Hey!” - and that meant the other two had been roused by the scuffle. Benton dove for the nearer man, tackling him flat before he could do more than sit up in his sleeping bag, driving a knee into his solar plexus and throwing another jab to the face. He felt the other man’s nose break even as the poacher slumped beneath him, and turned to see the last man reaching for his rifle. His hand had closed around the stock and he shouldered the gun in a single smooth motion. Benton was standing, running, but it was too late, from this range there was no way to miss - and then a low growl split the air, and the poacher howled. Teeth clamped tight into muscle and bone, the wolf pup was hanging from his arm, snarling and clawing, blood flying into the air as the man tried desperately to shake him off. But he was already reaching for his belt knife, and in an instant he’d gut the little animal.

Benton lifted his sock.

He’d weighted it with a fist-sized stone plucked from the river, and while it was a poor substitute for a bola, it would have to do. He whirled it overhead, gauged the distance, and released. Quinn would be ashamed of his aim, but it clipped the man’s shoulder, and he yelped, momentarily distracted.

It was enough. In three quick strides Benton was close enough to strike, smashing the man backwards and twisting his arm up behind him as he stumbled.

“You are under arrest for the illegal poaching of big game, and for the attempted murder of a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. You have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay….”

Afterwards, he fed the wolf near to bursting. He had promised, after all, and the creature had been exceedingly helpful in his pursuit and apprehension of the criminals. Then he wrapped himself in one of the bearskins - the poachers had not packed any spare clothes, so as to maximize the number of pelts they could carry out - and waited for the sun to rise.

* * *

The canoe was low in the water when he loaded it up. Four full-grown men, the pelts, and any supplies which were not biodegradable all had to be carried out. In the shuffle of packing the canoe, he had lost track of the wolf, and he scanned the horizon for it, feeling oddly lonely. He had wanted to - well, to say thank you, he supposed. But wild animals were wild animals.

Something leaned hard against his calves. He looked down. The wolf pup looked up. Then it sat, tail wagging furiously, right between his feet. And in its jaws…

“Is that my sock?” The wolf spat the grimy, torn fabric out and lolled its tongue at him. The tail was still going, thump thump thump in the dirt. “Yes, I should take it with me.” Thump, thump, thump. “Although I think it’s rather too ruined to wear.”

 _Stinky not-fur isn’t good for anything. Real fur is_ much _better_.

“If you’re offering to keep my feet warm," and, oh boy, the wolf was back to laughing at him, "I’m going to need something better to call you than ‘wolf’."

_Boss!_

"I think not. But how do you feel about the Progressive Conservative political party?”

The wolf had no strong feelings either way, as it turned out, but he did rather like the idea of being named after an alpha human.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Benton muttered, but Diefenbaker merely yawned, curled up in the footwell, and went to sleep.

And so, wrapped in a bearskin, wearing his left sock and the soft warm weight of his wolf on his feet, Benton took up his paddle and began their long journey home.


End file.
